


Put an ocean and a river (between everybody else)

by iworshipyou_oliver



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Coming In Pants, Emotional Hurt, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, I promise, M/M, Miscommunication, a genuine completely happy ending where they are in love, the journey may be painful but it is worth it, the kind i don't often write, there really is some angst in this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-27 00:55:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20939624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iworshipyou_oliver/pseuds/iworshipyou_oliver
Summary: A:Tim...I know things have been weird but I need to talk to you.*A:Please. I'm in London and I know you're on your way here. I need to see you...ten minutes. We can just get coffee if you want. Anywhere you choose.*Timmy bites his lip when the message preview lights his screen. He's just walking through Arrivals, and his first instinct is to angle his phone away from Brian's gaze.Not that he's even looking. Get a grip.'Things have been weird'.Timmy shakes his head slightly and shoves his phone back into his pocket.Yeah, no shit, Hammer.His gut is a tight mix of guilt and anger.





	Put an ocean and a river (between everybody else)

A:  **Tim...I know things have been weird but I need to talk to you. **

*

_ [Missed Facetime call: Armie]  _

_ [Missed Facetime call: Armie] _

*

_ [Missed Facetime call: Armie] _

*

A:  **Please. I'm in London and I know you're on your way here. I need to see you...ten minutes. We can just get coffee if you want. Anywhere you choose. **

*

Timmy bites his lip when the message preview lights his screen. He's just walking through Arrivals, and his first instinct is to angle his phone away from Brian's gaze.  _ Not that he's even looking. Get a grip.  _

_ 'Things have been weird'.  _ Timmy shakes his head slightly and shoves his phone back into his pocket.  _ Yeah, no shit, Hammer.  _

His gut is a tight mix of guilt and anger. 

*

He doesn't text back until that night. He's had a couple drinks. Joel's a bad influence. 

T:  **what's up? **

Armie sees the message right away, but doesn't respond for a few minutes. 

A:  **Didn't know if you were going to reply. **

Timmy feels himself flush, guiltily. Feels resentment, too, a hot uneasy ache in his chest. It's been weeks since he texted Armie back. 

T:  **well i'm drunk so **

Armie types; stops. Timmy flops onto his pristinely white hotel room bed, and wonders if the alcohol and his sour, guilty mood are going to curdle into nausea. 

A:  **That's what it takes?**

Timmy tries to impute anger to Armie's text, but he can only read hurt. His heart wrenches. 

T:  **what did you want to talk about? **

A:  **I need to talk in person. Can we meet? **

T:  **v mysterious. got the premiere and press. busy **

Armie sees the message, but doesn't reply for a minute. 

A:  **Please. **

T:  **you can come to my premiere if you like. give the charmies a thrill lol **

He's amazed by his own ability to slash and burn. 

A:  **I don't want to be in public. Especially not when I haven't seen you in months and things seem bad between us. **

The open acknowledgement that everything isn't fine—hasn't been fine for a long time—stings like a fresh cut. 

_ Fuck you. Fuck you for still being able to do this to me.  _

T:  **seem lol **

A:  **Please don't, Tim. Never mind. Stupid idea. **

Timmy grits his teeth and drops his phone. Punches a pillow, full force. 

T:  **when **

A:  **Shooting tomorrow and you have your premiere. Forget it **

T:  **fuck you. now? **

Armie sees the message; hesitates to reply, as though confused. 

A:  **Now?**

T:  **you got an apartment? or you want to come to my hotel? **

Armie's next message is just his address. Timmy calls an uber and goes into the bathroom; fixes his hair, brushes his teeth, and drinks a glass of water. Uses the toilet, then stares at himself in the mirror as he washes his hands. His cheeks are a little flushed with alcohol and frustration. He lays wet-cold hands against them for a moment, then turns away. 

The uber driver doesn't want to talk,  _ thank fuck. _ Timmy pulls his cap down and stares out of the window at the smears of neon against grey that are London: another day, another city. They blur, after a while. 

*

T:  **here **

He buzzes Armie's apartment for the shortest amount of time possible, annoyed by the necessity of all these small things, the tiny embarrassments of being human. 

He climbs the stairs instead of taking the elevator. It'll take longer. Every step is a chant:  _ I want to see Armie. I want to go home. _ He reminds himself he could just leave.  _ Turn around, step away, don't let yourself be drawn in. Like you promised. _

The apartment door is white, its black number stark. Timmy knocks lightly, as if perhaps Armie won't hear. 

Armie opens the door, and Timmy hates himself for the predictability of his reaction.  _ Whoa. Huge. I missed you.  _ He looks quickly away when it seems like Armie might hug him. 

"Hey." Armie steps back to let him in; further than he needs to. The satisfaction of wounding, just a little, whips a weal across Timmy's heart. 

"Hey." He walks in, keeping his distance. Pushes the door closed, and bends to unlace his boots. Every movement measured, polite;  _ don't want to get mud on your white short-term rental carpets, do we?  _

"I made coffee." Armie crosses to the kitchen, a corner of the main space. There are dishes drying on a rack next to the sink. The dishtowel has been left in a crumpled pile on the counter, and Timmy wants to spread it out, let it dry. 

Timmy feels the ludicrousness of his own humanity even more when he pads to the kitchen in socked feet. His gaze slips to Armie's feet, bare and vulnerable. He looks away. 

"Nice place." 

Armie shrugs. "Fine, yeah." He holds out a mug of coffee, then seems to check himself. Places it on the counter near Timmy instead. 

Timmy can read his thoughts like they're his own:  _ he didn't want to hug so he doesn't want to touch. Don't force him to.  _ He hates the knowledge, hates Armie for being decent, hates himself for wanting to hurt them both. 

"So." Timmy doesn't take the coffee. "You good?" 

Armie's hand curves to his coffee mug, like he's seeking the comfort of warmth. He hesitates. "I don't know." 

Timmy tosses him a shell of a smile, and turns away. Takes the armchair, not the sofa. Pulls his feet up, knees a rampart. "Cryptic." 

Armie follows with both coffees. Puts Timmy's next to him, on a coaster. He takes the sofa, but he doesn't relax. "Tim…" 

Behind the wall of his knees, Timmy hugs his belly. He stares at the soft grey fabric of his sweatpants, and deliberately doesn't look up. 

"You're angry with me." Armie's voice is deep but brittle; tired. 

Timmy wants to shake his head; back off, back down, retreat. With a bitter effort of will, he forces himself on. "It's not your fault," he says, flatly. "I'm just tired." He's watching Armie in the periphery of his vision. 

Armie swallows. His eyes are dark-circled. He hesitates on the verge of saying something for a long time. At last, he takes a breath. "The terms are agreed. I'm expecting the divorce papers to sign anytime." 

It's the first official confirmation Timmy's had; there have been rumors, but he hasn't asked Armie about it. 

Armie's hands are shaking, and he puts the mug down on the table next to him. Interlaces his fingers. Timmy hates himself for noticing, hates the protective instinct, the fear and the need that arises in him at once; hates Armie for showing weakness.  _ Is he upset to have lost her? Or upset to have lost me?  _

_ Has he lost me?  _

He wants to kneel and kiss Armie's hands. 

He wants to leave. 

"Sorry, man." Timmy's voice is a blank.  _ I sound like a fucking sociopath.  _ "That's—yeah, sorry. I hope the kids are okay." 

Armie's expression is a rush of  _ no of course they're not and it's all my fault  _ and Timmy has to look away because it hurts. 

"Thanks." Armie doesn't look up. 

_ Did you think I'd rush to you? Kiss you? Beg you to fuck me at last, at last, at last?  _

"We haven't been talking." Armie gestures between them. His voice almost shakes. He cuts off the last word before it can. 

_ Place the blame on us both, Armie, because of course you would. Or you could tell the truth: I haven't been talking to you.  _ Timmy shoves down his hot, guilty reaction; begs his cheeks not to flush. "Yeah, it's been a busy one."  _ Sorry,  _ he ought to say, no matter how much he doesn't mean it. 

He doesn't say it. 

There are a million things Armie could say:  _ yeah you looked busy in Capri,  _ or  _ all those bagels won't eat themselves I guess,  _ but he doesn't.  _ Of course he doesn't, because he's Armie. _ Timmy could punch him. 

They're silent, and Timmy lets the silence extend, on and on. 

"I waited too long." Armie's voice is quiet, deep. He's staring at the corner of the coffee table. 

It's the most open acknowledgement either of them have ever made of— _ it,  _ the thing between them that isn't friendship, that's a thousand times more than anything Timmy can ever find words for. Or used to be. Before he let it break, let it run through his fingers like sand—before he stopped believing. 

"It's not your fault." Timmy repeats, and letting that tacit confirmation pass lacerates his heart again. 

Armie's lips press together. He takes a breath, sharp but covert, like someone managing pain. "Do you love her?" 

The unfairness of it all slams through Timmy.  _ 'Do you love her?' Like I didn't watch you with your wife for three fucking years. Like I didn't know I was nothing in comparison. A potential everything and an actual nothing. _ "No," he says, with a nasty little twist of a smile. He enjoys the shock written deep in Armie's expression.  _ He doesn't like me like this. My calculating side.  _

_ Do you love me?  _ The question hangs in the air, and nobody asks it. 

"I'm sorry." Armie sounds sincere. 

_ What are you sorry for? That we're not going to fuck?  _ Timmy tries the outraged question out in his head, but it feels hollow, meaningless. He knows everything Armie's sorry for; can almost feel his pain. He hates himself for feeling it, and for ignoring it. For not being able to  _ really  _ ignore it. 

Timmy shakes his head, the only answer he can manage. 

They sit in silence again, and Timmy wants his coffee. Doesn't want it, too, because he has a strange sense that drinking anything here would be like taking faerie food, or eating pomegranate seeds in Hades: a promise, a compromise, a loss of the self. He hugs his stomach tighter, and feels a little sick. 

_ Will you still get divorced, if I don't want you?  _ Timmy wants to ask. 

And then:  _ the ego. He's not your fucking slave. He'll move on, eventually, like you have. Find someone new.  _

_ Like you have.  _

The clock on the wall has a tick. It reminds Timmy of math lessons. He doesn't know how Armie hasn't taken it down already; put it in a cupboard or buried it, a tell-tale heart. It's half past midnight, but it doesn't feel like a new day. 

"I should go," says Timmy, but he doesn't move. Despite everything, despite every single fucking thing, he just wants to be here, near Armie, breathing the same air. 

_ Pathetic.  _

Armie shakes his head. Then, "when did you stop—" he hesitates, and seems to dismiss it. "When did you start feeling like this?" 

_ Like a doctor,  _ thinks Timmy vaguely. He's tired now, emotionless.  _ I don't think diagnosing it will help.  _

"I don't think this is something we can fix." It's too blunt, probably. 

"I can see that." Armie's face is a bleak twist of humor and pain. "Sorry." It means,  _ I shouldn't have asked. _

Timmy shrugs.  _ Stop apologizing.  _

They're quiet again, for a long time. Timmy wants to climb into Armie's lap and let himself be held. 

_ He wouldn't want you now,  _ he reminds himself, savagely. 

"Why did you decide to do it in the end?" he asks. "The divorce?" He has to know, and tonight they seem to be telling the truth. 

Armie looks away. "You know why." 

Slowly, Timmy shakes his head. 

Armie's eyelashes flutter, but he seems to accept Timmy's insistence as an additional little cruelty. He hesitates, choosing his words. "Because we wanted different things. Because I want to be a better man. Because I'd lied to myself for a long time. Because the kids deserve better than that. Because—I fell in love with someone else." He says the last sentence blankly, as if trying to convey that it confers no obligation. 

_ Because I fell in love with someone else.  _ Timmy thrills with it, darkly, privately, telling himself it doesn't matter. 

"You'll live in LA." Timmy knows it already, of course;  _ because of the kids.  _ It's something to say, something that isn't an answer or even an acknowledgement. 

"Of course." Armie looks at him, then away. 

_ Did you really think I'd fall into your arms?  _ Timmy wants to ask.  _ When you played this conversation out in your head, did it end with me flying into your loving embrace? Did it end in bed? Or with me on my knees, sucking you gratefully?  _

He just wants Armie to hold him. 

"I'm sorry too, Armie." He can't help saying it, and meaning it. 

Armie shakes his head. His lips twitch, but he can't speak. He looks down at his fingers. 

Timmy can feel the alcohol wearing off, leaving behind it a kind of grey, dragging nausea. He doesn't even want the coffee anymore. 

After a few more minutes, Armie gets up and boils the kettle. Timmy watches him take down a box of Earl Grey teabags from the cupboard; hears the low rip of perforated cardboard being broken for the first time.  _ He bought me teabags.  _

Armie swaps out Timmy's cold coffee for a mug of hot, steaming tea, and it's exactly what Timmy needs. 

_ Fuck it. Faerie food it is.  _ Timmy takes a sip. 

Armie sits on the sofa again; shifts this time, lies down, knees bent. He rests his head on the arm of the sofa. 

"How  _ are  _ the kids?" asks Timmy. 

Armie shrugs slightly. "Confused. Sad. But okay." 

"Did Harper start school?" 

Armie nods. "And preschool for Ford." 

"Shit, man." Timmy's chest is tight with the  _ normality  _ of this conversation, with the consciousness that it's taking place in the eye of a storm. After a minute, "are they gonna be moving house?" 

Armie shakes his head. "The recent move—that was…" he gestures. Takes a breath. "For this." 

Timmy knows he doesn't manage to keep the shock he feels out of his expression.  _ It's been going on a long time.  _

Armie nods, as if answering. Then, "I mean, I'm renting an apartment, of course. After I'm done here. So they'll be there with me half the time." 

_ Half the time. Does he mean literally half the time? Like, legally?  _ Timmy struggles with how to ask. "So—you guys worked out a good—uh...agreement?" 

"As good as they get, I guess." Armie sounds exhausted, and Timmy wonders how long the negotiations have taken. 

The tea's delicious. If tonight was different, Timmy would've asked which brand it is. He shivers, chilly now his booze jacket's worn off.

Armie levers himself off the sofa and pads barefoot into the bedroom; returns with a blanket that he drops on the arm of Timmy's chair. 

Timmy hates that he didn't hold it out, that their hands didn't have a chance to touch. He wraps himself in the blanket. It doesn't smell of Armie; just of unfamiliar washing detergent. 

_ We're sitting shiva,  _ he thinks.  _ For something we never quite had.  _ The clock ticks the rhythm of his slow, tired thoughts. 

Neither of them speaks for a long time. 

"Where next, after this?" asks Armie. 

"Busan. South Korea." 

Slowly, Armie nods. "Do you have any time to look around?" 

"A bit. Like half a day, I guess." 

Armie nods again, in silence. The clock ticks. 

Timmy finishes his tea, and puts the mug back on the coaster, on the table. 

"Fuck you for doing this now," says Timmy, at last. He rests his head back against the armchair; stares up at the ceiling. "Fuck you, Armie." He says it without heat. "And your stupid fucking moustache." 

Armie's smile is a painful little twist. "If only you still had the bowl cut." He sighs. "Why 'fuck me for doing it now'?" 

Timmy shakes his head against the back of the chair. It means, _ I don't know. Why do you want me to know what I mean?  _

_ Fuck you for doing this when I thought I'd found some peace. Something different. Something I could do, without being out of my depth.  _

"I was fine. I was doing fine." It sounds defiant; childish. 

Armie gives a mirthless little huff of laughter. "I know _ that,  _ Tim. I never said it wasn't purely selfish." 

_ But I know it wasn't, Armie. Because you're you. And fuck you, once again. _

"Whatever, man." Timmy wants him to know he knows he's lying.  _ You'd never have ripped up your kids' comfortable lives unless you thought it would help someone other than yourself.  _ "Why tell me now?" 

Armie hugs himself, long arms across his stomach. "The only thing left now is the signatures. There's nothing—it's not a half measure. It's not—" he swallows. "It's different, now. Done. I don't feel like I'm lying. To anyone." 

Slowly, Timmy nods. 

The clock ticks. 

"You're shooting tomorrow. You have to sleep," says Timmy, after a while. 

Armie nods. Neither of them moves. 

"Got your lines?" asks Timmy, hugging his knees. 

"Yeah." Armie turns on his side, pulling a cushion under his head. His eyelids look heavy. 

"You want me to go?" 

"No." He says it quickly. Then, with an ironical little smile, "of course I don't." 

Timmy reads the other message of his words.  _ Not that it does either of us much good now.  _ He pulls the blanket more closely around himself. "Aren't you cold?" 

"No." Armie's tone is fond, and Timmy's heart hurts. 

"Let's go to bed." Timmy knows there's no chance of Armie misinterpreting his words. 

Armie nods; slowly they move, Timmy still wrapped in the blanket like a cape.

Armie takes the mugs to the kitchen and rinses them. Timmy heads for the bedroom, for the door that Armie had disappeared behind before. 

There's a sweater and a pair of jeans over a chair in the corner; the sliding door of the wardrobe stands half-open. The bed is made tidily. A book and a section of script lie on the left nightstand. Timmy climbs under the duvet on the right-hand side, and lays his head on the pillow. 

He drifts a little; and when Armie joins him he feels as if he's been woken, even though he wasn't really asleep. 

Armie turns the bedside lamp on, making sure it points away from Timmy's face. He puts his phone and a glass of water on the nightstand, then goes to the bathroom. Timmy hears him pee, then brush his teeth. 

There's no ticking clock in here. Timmy rolls onto his back and takes his wallet and phone out of his pockets. Puts them on his nightstand. Rolls back onto his side. 

Armie climbs under the duvet fully clothed too, and Timmy remembers his vulnerably bare feet. He wants to let Armie warm them against his legs. 

They lie watching one other. 

"When did you first know?" asks Timmy, after a while. 

"You really want to do this now?" asks Armie, and Timmy knows he means  _ now, when it's over,  _ not  _ now, in the middle of the night.  _

"Yes." 

"I don't know." Armie sighs. "After the first ten words you said, probably. I knew I was in trouble after the kiss rehearsal. And I knew I was  _ fucked  _ the week after we all left." 

He doesn't ask,  _ and you?  _

_ Of course he doesn't,  _ thinks Timmy grimly.  _ Because he's Armie.  _

"Three nights in," says Timmy. "After you helped me with the piece I was practicing." He lets his gaze play over Armie's face; the soft curve of his lips, the strong line of his jaw.  _ Fuck you, Hammer. Fuck you for everything.  _ "I couldn't stop watching your hands," he adds. 

"Did you already know you liked men?" Armie asks. 

Timmy's heart pounds in his chest. "Guess so." He says it as casually as he can.  _ I didn't know I could want anyone as much as I wanted you. That I could love like that. Painfully. Immediately.  _

Armie's gaze lingers on Timmy's curls, his ear, his jaw. Timmy feels observed, dissected. 

"I didn't," says Armie, at last. "Know." 

Slowly, Timmy nods. "I figured." 

Armie looks away, and his expression is almost a wince. 

Timmy knows what it means:  _ it must have been boring for you, watching my banal little breakdown.  _ His heart aches. 

"When did you give up?" asks Armie. "I—need to know that, I think." He gives a wonky little smile. "How much I missed by." 

Timmy shrugs. "I'm not sure, exactly. A few months." 

Armie just bites his lip. 

Time passes, and they look at each other, without filter, without pretence. Just look. 

Armie's eyes are storm-grey in this low, muted light. Timmy wants to touch his long eyelashes, run the pad of his thumb down the centre of Armie's nose. 

They keep looking, and Timmy wonders idly why Armie isn't trying to change his mind, to persuade him things could be good. Could get better. 

He knows the answer already.  _ He never really believed I could want him back. When in reality I wanted him first. And I always thought I wanted him more.  _

_ He broke up his whole life, but he still doesn't think that entitles him to me. To anything from me.  _

"You really ought to sleep," says Timmy.

"I know. So should you. Your premiere…"

"Imagine," says Timmy, with a smile. "Stepping out of the car together." 

Armie gives him a soft little lopsided grin. "You're a provocateur, Tim. You love creating an effect, don't you?" 

_ Is that what you think? I'll do anything, use anyone, just to play with people?  _

_ Is that what I'm like?  _

"Pruh-vuh-ca-too-werr," mocks Timmy, rolling his eyes. 

"Sorry. Mistranslation. Little  _ shit."  _

"Fuck you." 

"Fuck you too." Armie rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. He says the words with more fondness than should be possible. 

Timmy reaches down and laces their fingers together. "Why aren't you telling me it'll be okay?" 

Armie's lips wobble for a moment before he presses them together. When he smiles at Timmy, his eyes are too bright. "There's no point  _ begging  _ someone to love you, Tim. A little something I've learned in the last decade." 

"Don't you want me to?" 

Armie takes a sharp breath in through his nose, and Timmy knows he's trying not to cry. "I trust you not to want to hurt me. If you don't anymore…" his voice catches, and almost breaks. He stops talking. 

"You're nicer about me than I deserve," says Timmy. His own voice is rough. He hates himself. 

"You  _ do  _ want to hurt me?" asks Armie, and his voice walks the line between humor and tears. 

"I—did," admits Timmy. "Not now." He takes a breath, chest tight. "See? You shouldn't believe the best of me." 

"Well." Armie stares up at the ceiling. "Love fucks with your perception, I guess." On  _ love, _ the first tear slips from the corner of his eye. 

Timmy presses his lips to it, stops it traveling. Licks them, tasting salt. 

"Tim." There are more tears, now, but Armie's not paying attention to them. He's watching Timmy's face. "I just—I want you to know, okay? Whether or not—I still want you to know. I love you. I've been in love with you for so fucking long I can't even tell when it started, not exactly." 

Timmy nods, watching Armie's tears. His throat is tight. He tries to find a space between breaths calm enough to speak. "I love you too, you stupid,  _ stupid _ man." 

Armie swallows. "Does it matter?" 

"The stupidity?" 

"The love." They're both smiling. Timmy's cheeks are wet, too. 

"Turns out it does." 

Armie folds onto his side, then, and presses his face to Timmy's neck; cries silently, shaking, for a long time. 

Timmy cries too, fingers clutched tight into Armie's back. He holds him safe; tries almost to cover him, to shield him, as if the threat were an external one.

"Stay here," croaks Armie, at last. 

"Of course I'm staying here, you absolute dumbass." 

"You're very insulting." 

"Yeah, sorry." 

"Are you?" 

"No." 

They both laugh, through snot and tears. Armie sits up, then pushes himself off the bed; fetches a spare toilet roll. They sit together, blowing their noses. Timmy licks Armie's cheek, stealing salt-taste again. 

Armie laughs and pushes him off. "Like a fucking dog." 

Timmy crawls into his lap and bites Armie's bottom lip, hard, until he hears a sharp intake of breath. 

_ Everyone thought you were the dominant one, Armie, when they saw those likes.  _

_ And me?  _

_ I've always wondered.  _

Timmy pushes Armie back down onto the pillows; brushes the toilet roll and tissues onto the floor. Buries both hands in Armie's hair and  _ pulls,  _ hard. "Can I kiss you?" 

Armie nods, even though it must hurt him to move his head against Timmy's grip on his hair. 

Timmy smiles, and brushes their lips together. His hands melt into a scalp massage as he licks Armie's lips.  _ I love you. I love you so much it hurts.  _

"Armie…" he whispers, into the kiss. 

"I'm busy, Timothée." Armie says it the French way, and he's smiling. 

Timmy grins. "Hmm." He reaches up for Armie's hand; pulls it down between their bodies. Presses the palm against the front of his sweatpants. "Busy. Yup. Got it." He grinds against Armie's hand. 

"Jesus fucking Christ," mutters Armie, but Timmy smothers the words with another demanding kiss. 

Timmy reaches down too; shifts his hips so there's room to touch the rigid length of Armie's cock, to rub him through his jeans. 

Armie gasps though, and pulls back, out of the kiss. "Don't—" he's flushed, his hair a mess. His eyes are dark. 

Timmy frowns, staring at him; then understands. He shakes his head. "Fuck you. No.  _ I _ decide what you deserve." 

Armie's gaze drops. He flushes harder. "Just—let me—" 

Timmy moves fast; sinks his teeth into Armie's neck, biting him so hard it must hurt. "Do you want us to be together?" he asks. 

Armie groans.  _ "Ouch _ , Tim. Of course I do." 

"Then this is your sustainable plan?" asks Timmy, licking the place he'd bitten. "Abstain until you think your balls are blue enough to pay me back? Three years repaid in frustration?" He nibbles at the toothmarks, hoping to cause pain. 

Armie gasps. "I don't know, Tim—I don't know—" 

"Then stop being such a fucking idiot." Timmy drops onto the bed next to Armie and reaches for the bottom drawer of the nightstand. Smiles when he finds lube. 

He kisses Armie softly, filthily, as he unzips his jeans. Coats his right hand in lube, and delights in making Armie gasp with the cold of it. Groans into another kiss as he starts to work him, and presses his own cock to Armie's thigh. 

He pushes Armie's t-shirt up, and licks across his nipple. 

"Jesus Christ—Tim—"

"Sorry, yes. Sorry." Timmy smirks, and then bites; sucks, and bites again. Hums satisfaction as Armie moans, hips stuttering. 

"Fuck. Fuck, Timmy—" 

"Good. Yes, Armie. That's good." Timmy strokes him, long and fast and slick. This is going to be quick, he knows, and he wants it. Wants everything,  _ now.  _ He teases Armie's hard nipple with his teeth, not hurting. Not  _ much.  _

Rubbing his clothed cock against Armie's hard thigh again, the friction is almost too much. He's leaking precome; there's just the tiniest spot of it soaking through his sweatpants. 

Armie's cock is rigid, bigger, straining in Timmy's hand. 

Timmy tightens his grip. "Put your hand over mine." When Armie hesitates: "I mean it. Now." He moans when Armie does it, high on his own power. 

Armie's close, Timmy knows; he can feel him almost shivering, tensed from head to toe. 

Timmy bends his head to Armie's nipple again, biting softly, grinding against Armie's thigh, letting Armie show him how to touch, how to bring him closer—

"Come for me, Armie." He's shocked by the command in his own voice, especially since he can feel how close he is to coming himself. Desperate, hot tension prickles through his thighs; he rolls his hips, grinding harder—

"Oh god, oh fuck,  _ fuck,  _ Timmy,  _ fuck—" _ Armie gasps, stomach tensing, cock pulsing in their hands as they stroke him together. He groans, come shooting across his chest, his stomach, his hand, his jeans. 

Timmy moans softly, watching Armie even as he starts to come in his pants, shaking, grinding his cock still harder against Armie's thigh until he can't take the friction anymore, until he has to stop. 

Armie's watching him, wide-eyed, chest heaving. He looks lost, unmoored. Timmy kisses him, licking into his mouth. 

"Tim…"

"Baby." Timmy kisses Armie again. Gently lets go of his cock; wipes his hand on his own sweatpants and pulls Armie close. "Hey. You okay? I love you." 

"Tim…" Armie kisses back. "You're—you're the best thing I've ever seen, okay? Just…" there are tears in the corners of his eyes again, and Timmy kisses them away. 

"It's okay." He wants to protect him. Reassure him. "We're going to have a shower. We're going to put our pants in a half-hour wash, and then mine are going on a dry cycle. We're going to get like three hours' sleep, or whatever, until your car arrives. And until I have to go to Busan, we're going to spend every single fucking second we can in this bed." 

Armie lets go of a long, quiet breath. He presses his face to Timmy's chest. "Okay." 

"C'mon, baby. No falling asleep covered in come." 

"What a boring rule," mumbles Armie. 

Timmy snorts a laugh and kisses his cheek. "Take your clothes off and get in the shower, wiseass." 

Armie opens his eyes. "I  _ need  _ to watch you get out of those pants," he admits, cheeks flaming. 

Timmy feels his grin spread, slowly. "You know, I wasn't trying to be sexy. I just had to get off, and your thighs are...well. Guess you've been in the gym, huh." 

Armie groans. "Fuck, Tim." He bites his lip, and takes a breath. "I think I have a kink." 

"Hmm," hums Timmy, happily. He shrugs. "You can make me ruin my pants whenever you want, baby. Unless they're Haider. There  _ are  _ limits." 

"Wait, so the McQueens are fair game?" 

Timmy narrows his eyes, grinning. "Negotiable. Case-by-case basis." He kneels up and strips off his hoodie and t-shirt; undoes the drawstring on his sweatpants. 

Armie reaches out his hand; hesitates until Timmy nods, and presses his palm to the damp patch of come on the front. His breath catches. 

Slowly, Timmy strips off his pants and boxers, revealing the sticky mess to Armie's wondering gaze. Timmy can feel his cock filling out again; not quite hard again yet, but—

Armie groans, and puts his hands over his face. "Jesus Christ, Chalamet. Jesus fucking Christ." 

Timmy throws his ruined pants and boxers on the floor, then bends down to kiss the backs of Armie's hands. "Shower with me, baby. Come on." 

He clambers off the bed, and he's only halfway to the bathroom before Armie's arms slip around his waist, across his chest. 

*

They sit together in the armchair, waiting for Timmy's pants to finish in the dryer. He's curled in Armie's lap, wearing borrowed boxers. The duvet's wrapped around them. 

Armie kisses him, lazily, and Timmy wonders if either of them really believes they're going to get any sleep. 

"I'm sorry," whispers Armie, at last. "That it took me so long." 

Timmy presses his forehead to Armie's temple; kisses him on the cheek. "I'm sorry too. For trying to stop." 

Armie shakes his head, fiercely. "No. Don't." He seeks Timmy's lips, and bites his bottom lip in the kiss. 

"I'm going to tell them you were meant to be there," murmurs Timmy, after a while. 

"Mm?" 

"At the premiere. You'd be my date if you could, wouldn't you baby?" 

Armie's eyes shine. "You know I would." 

"Good. Then I'm going to tell them." 

*


End file.
